


Did You Make a List?

by Allen_In_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cabarets, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, Mental Torture, Other, References to Addiction, References to Drug Use, References to Drugs, References to Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Triggers, references to self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allen_In_Black/pseuds/Allen_In_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things Sherlock has tried to forget, but can't. They sit in the darkest corners of his mind, both enemies and old friends. What will happen when those corners are explored, and Sherlock beings to lose control of himself? It's time to make a list. Trigger warnings apply. Thanks for reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Did You Make a List?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the related characters. I just enjoy them.

**This idea came to mind after the holiday special. More characters (and hopefully more dark and disturbing incidents) will be added later. Hope you like it.**

 

 

                Cases . . . So many cases, a time before John . . . All blurring together, details mixing up, some shoved so deep into the few cobwebbed chambers of his mind palace but impossible to push out altogether, to burn, to delete. Delete. Delete.

                _Sherlock._

                Figures hanging by their toes, by their necks, from hooks, from chains, from small clips and cutting themselves down, falling . . . naked flesh, pale and blood-bathed, everyone in that room half dead or well on their way, but no murder, no crime, not even a whiff of the blood-stained steel making it up to the dulled noses of the supposed bloodhounds of Scotland Yard.

                The case of the Macabre Cabaret, a caterer to all those in need of death and misfortune, filled with the few artists of London whose canvases were both deeply private, and public for a period of a few hours in the dark abandoned buildings of the Underground. Whose music sounded very much like steel violin bows on bone, and flesh.

                _Sherlock!_

And one man, huddled in the back corner, high out of his mind but finding himself falling only deeper into it. Hair matted, bloodstained—could be the girls’ or his own—eyes open wide, staring at the horrors in front of him but seeing only the horrors in the back of his mind, those dark, dusty corners. . .

                _Sherlock did you make a list?_

                A list of what? True, there was a paper in his hand. Somewhere. Waiting. Who knows who would find it there? And who knows what it might be of? Failure, perhaps. Corpses whose creators went unpunished. Rapers, thieves, and liars never pushed out of their hiding spots.

                Or, perhaps, a list of failures of the man among other men.

                Family members cast off. Friends, humiliated and pushed aside. His own body, bruised, abused, filled with drugs and scarred . . .

_SHERLOCK. For God’s sake, the list._

_Did you make one?_

                A list of hours spent trying to get a fix from those back corners of his mind palace, letting and memories of cases, highs, old wounds, ANYTHING fill his mind, keep him from creating new ones, new failures, new nights spent in hospital patronized by _dear brother,_ new—

 

 

“SHERLOCK! If I have to ask again I’ll slap you clear across the—”

                Sherlock’s eyes snapped into focus.

                John.

                Standing in front of him.

                Annoyed, face a little red.

                Gripping a partially crumpled paper in his left hand.

                Glaring at Sherlock.

                “What . . .” His voice came out a little raspy. He cleared his throat. “What list? Shut up. I’m busy.”

                “Busy?! Bloody Hell.” John shook the paper in Sherlock’s face. “A _grocery_ list. The one I’ve been asking you about for the past five minutes.”

                “It was only four minutes and twenty-three seconds.”

                “Sherlock . . .” He pushed his fingers through his hair. “I’m going out. Now. For groceries. For the last time, is there anything you’d like me to pick up.”

                “No.” John turned to leave. “Actually!” He turned back. “Ethanol. And a new riding crop. I broke the last one. Tuesday.”

                Watson grumbled and slammed the door. Standing slowly, Sherlock fumbled on the table for a piece of paper. Dark feelings crawled into his thoughts intermittently from the corners of his mind, like cases opening in all corners of the flat and letting out long-held desires and memories, secrets and stashes saved both lovingly and with fear. Pandora’s boxes which both unleashed the horror and held it back, whose contents stung on his arms and in his chest like knives, like bees. Like sharp little needles. His vision swam and he sunk back into his chair, sleeves rolled up, paper safe within the pocket of his dressing gown.

                _Did you make a list?_

                Yes.

                It was time to make a list.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment, be it positive or negative feedback. With luck, this will be more sick and twisted as time goes on.


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